And Burn
by CookingKiller
Summary: -Shawn/Vince--Shawn/Hunter- Warning: D/S! - 'Speed up, crash if you have to. He just wants to get out of that car. Run back to the people who like him, despite everything. And to those arms. Or just crash – and, the end. "Speed up," he murmurs.'
1. Chapter 1

_I guess this might be kind of AU, as we should probably ignore the RR 97 happened in San Antonio, and maybe a few other things. I follow some stuff Shawn says in Heartbreak And Triumph, though (...mostly the slashy stuff, like spending the day in Vince's office hehe).  
__  
This is actual Vince/Shawn (with actual Shawn/Hunter, that goes without saying), not Vince being an evil bastard/Shawn. If that makes you go 'ew'... Well you don't know what you're missing, ha!_

_And if you don't know what D/s is, you just probably shouldn't even read this._

_Posting the first chapter to see how well this goes with the ffnet people. It's special enough..._

* * *

A last glance at the mirror, to see how terrible he looks today.

His throat still hurts from all the throwing up, the coughing, so Shawn massages it, lightly. The little mark on his neck almost disappeared, he notices. He's going to need another one. Pressing on it doesn't make him feel anything anymore. He keeps on staring at his reflection for a while, hand still curled around his neck, like he's going to choke himself.

And it's time to go.

Shawn usually likes to make Timmy's life miserable. He deserves it, in a way. Hunter is the one supposed to drive him to the arenas, not some fucker he barely even knows. Some fucker who only knows HBK, and not the other guy, not much else. It doesn't feel like company. It doesn't feel like a friend is giving you a drive. And today, it feels nauseating more than anything. His head is pounding, his eyelids are heavy, his limbs don't really want to work. So he's sprawled on the seat, head firmly against the headset, stuck between dozing and startling awake. Not making Tim's life especially unbearable. Lights and shapes pass by fast.

"Sh-shitty of Vince to do that, uh." The referee's nervousness isn't just palpable.

That, having them drive in separate cars. Act like complete strangers, act like he doesn't know who's that guy in the black car far behind theirs, like he can't imagine what that guy is thinking right now. Like him? Or is he happy to have a real peaceful ride for once, no temper to deal with? _He should_. Shawn swallows, thickly.

"If that's what Vince wants." He can still hear the call Vince gave him in Tampa. He yelled a little, was a little yelled at. Fucking lame day that was. "Focus on the fucking road." His voice is rough, betraying. But if that's what Vince wants...then he has nothing to say, ultimately. He can't disappoint him.

"Sorry."

"Speed the fuck up too."Speed up, crash if you have to. He just wants to get out of that car. Run back to the people who like him, appreciate him, despite everything. And to those arms. Or just crash – and, the end. "Speed up," he murmurs. Timmy heard him the first time, and he feels the vehicle going faster, sees the lights and shapes pass by faster. And they finally twist and fade to black when his eyes close for good, his breathing calms down.

He dreams, of running half-naked through a dark city, of being hunted in a dark forest, and the black wolf behind him ends up catching him, sinking his fangs into Shawn's flesh, still shining even smeared with his blood. There's the noise of shattered glass when he screams and his body meets the ground, and he expects to see some surrounding him when his eyes open wide.

But he's still sprawled on the seat, head turned, right arm numb. No crash.

"You alright?" Tim sounds genuinely worried. Won't do him any good. "We're at the arena..."

Shawn looks through the window, clutching his head. Outside, there's no sun shining. He wonders if the crowd is going to turn on him again. Not that it really matters, anyway.

He gets out of the car wordlessly, walking as fast as he can crossing the street, the pavement, the doors, the corridors. Hunter, he won't have to deal with the temper.

Stops to ask for some medecine, whatever they got for headaches. The woman (he never caught her name) eyes him warily – she knows about the other presciption drugs he could take, almost always takes. They all use those pills – well, not Hunter. He glares back, sneers a thanks.

And more corridors. He doesn't let everyone know he's going to tear the house down this time. A few of the boys talk to him, more glare at him, whisper to each other. Someday Shawn will manage to convince himself all of this doesn't matter either. So far, bitching and getting wasted every night is working pretty well instead. He remembers laughing a lot the other night. Drinking some good whiskey. All alone. Hunter wasn't there, as usual. The kid doesn't know how to live. _Survive._

Some losers hang around Vince's office. _Hopeful_, he guesses. They seem ready to say something when Shawn opens the door and enters, without knocking, but hears nothing as it closes behind him. He leans against it.

He knows where Vince hides the alcohol. The couch looks as inviting as ever.

Drink. Meds. Rest.

He wakes up for the second time today his head in someone's lap. Warm, solid, moving cushions. Lifting his eyelids half-way shows him the blurry hint of a black suit, and his ears pick up one side of a conversation.

Vince is keeping his voice low.

Shawn lets the heavy eyelids fall back down. His headache is almost worse than before. There's a soothing hand in his hair, though, caressing and playing with the curls. He leans more into it.

"You need to be alright for tonight," Vince says, talking to him now. Shawn nods. Important show tonight – a title again, and more time to enjoy his life than the rest of the week. More precious minutes in a ring. To be great, to be untouchable...

"You can stay here to get some rest." He nods again. Blindly reaches for Vince's clothes to trap in his fist. He could stay here until the show too.

The hand goes from his head to the back of his neck, sliding through blonde locks.

"And don't mix the two again."

Meds and alcohol. He knows. He tends to know everything. Shawn didn't really do it on purpose, he just had the scotch, he had the meds, he had a glass, might as well use the lot of them. He didn't think about what he was doing. Not really. Not much. Maybe. A second.

The fingers on his neck get tighter, warm the skin up. "Understood?" Not tight enough to leave another mark.

Shawn doesn't nod this time. "Ye..." Has to clear his throat. "Yes, sir."

Fingers leave his neck and brush his cheek, slowly, until a thumb reaches his lower lip and traces along – forcefully enough – then is gone. His heart had the time to start beating faster. "Good boy." It thuds against his chest.

And doesn't stop being so loud, not until long after Vince is gone too – busy, business – and his head now rests against the arm of the leather couch. No human warmth there.

When did it start? That relationship. Shawn never remembers exactly, every meaningful start gets out of his head. There's just a vague 'when', a year, a month with some luck...rarely a day, never an hour. He does know what's been said, though, what he was doing. What he needed then. What he still needs now. His fingers find his neck again.

Shawn never gets enough rest before the show, but it must go on, after all. The match is alright, average, people cheer, the aftermath feels good. Look who's champ, fuckers. _Look who can still be blamed for all your failings._

And he keeps thinking about it, as the water of the shower hits his back hard and he stares at it flowing down the tiled floor. No. No, the match was bad. It could have been better. It can always be better.

And he's still telling himself that when he finally meets Hunter's eyes, going out of the showers, dripping, and not feeling better. Feeling worse. They didn't have much chance to talk before. Shawn didn't give him much chance.

"That was great, man." And a little smile. And a twinkle in his eyes. They're the color of that whiskey he never touches. They're warm.

Shawn avoids them, and snorts. "I'm fucking sick. Sid can't wrestle shit. That match was crap." Gets dressed as quickly as he can. He feels the headache coming back.

His feet and his shaky legs start moving forward, almost by themselves, through all the light corridors again.

"Well, at least you regained the title, champ," Hunter says behind him.

"Yeah. Feels great."

And silence. Hunter probably knows it doesn't feel that great. He tends to know a lot of stuff, too. Then, "you know I'm here if you...want to talk." Why would he want to talk? What would they talk about? _Do you enjoy the rides without me?_

Shawn doesn't turn to him. "Yeah? You drinking with me tonight?" And coughs, clears his throat. "Better throwing up there all night..." Than anywhere else.

More silence. And, "talk, not drink."

"I like doing both." His head is definitely back at pounding, now. Pounding and pounding and pounding. Like his knee with each step. Like his left arm. He needs the soothing hand in his hair. He needs to lay down, beside him. He needs... If Vince isn't here, he's going to need a few pills. And something more radical, maybe.

A different bunch of losers, less than before, hang around the office. Not the ideal time. Those guys will never get anything. Shawn can't help but smirk at them. They're all interchangeable.

And there's a resigned sigh behind him. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Shawn already forgot what's the program for tomorrow. It doesn't matter. The ratings will still go down, anyway. He's still going to be blamed, anyway. It's still not Hunter he'll talk to all night and all morning. "Okay," he simply says.

His hand is already pushing the door open. He doesn't want to look into Hunter's eyes again. There's that something there...that shouldn't be there. Not when he doesn't even want to go have a drink with him. Party with him. Spend most of the night with him. It just shouldn't be.

Once again, the boys glare at him when he enters the room, but stay silent. Good.

It's one side of a conversation his ears pick up again. Vince is scratching something on some paper, focused on what whoever is on the other end of the line is telling him. It's about a contract. It's about money. As it often is. Already, Shawn's body seems to calm down, and he steps forward. He relishes in the quasi-silence of the room, breathes in its smell. Mix of many nice things. There's a little of leather. A little of Vince's cologne.

Vince glances at him when he's near the desk, and immediately focuses on the piece of paper and that other guy again. Shawn should wait, wait to be told what to do. But he's busy, so might as well...do whatever he wants. _And what is it?_

He looks at the black suit wrinkling each time Vince moves his arm for a while, then draws even nearer. _What is it? _What could he do? Whatever he wants.

More talk about thousands of dollars. Shawn drops to his knees, carefully – they're hurting enough. One leg is stretched in front of the seat, and Shawn just looks again, for a longer time. Then, when he's sure Vince is too focused on the conversation to say anything, to get angry, to tell him to stay away until he has the actual right to do something – because that's how it works, normally, the boss makes the moves, the boss orders him around, and he listens, and he obeys – Shawn leans against that leg, slowly, progressively. Rests his head near the knee. Wraps his arms around the calf. Curls up. His heart is thudding against his chest again, so loud Vince has to hear it or feel it too, and he sighs, heavily.

It feels nice. Warm. He forgets about the bad match, he forgets about being the best, not being the best, he just forgets. The hurting parts of his body calm down, stop pounding. Others wake up. It feels even nicer when fingers finally slide into his hair, go back and forth. Vince hasn't spoken in a while, there's just the light noise of a pen on paper. He writes a long sentence. Scratches a word or two. The pen clinks against the surface of the desk. The fingers in his hair still.

And yank.

Wide blue eyes meet narrowed dark ones before quickly lowering. His Adam's apple bobs. His mind provides only one word, _sorry, _but there's shivers down his spine and the pulsing in his chest that tell him his body at least isn't sorry at all. His head is tugged to the side. It doesn't really hurt, it's not like his sore knees, his sore back. It hurts a little. It hurts good.

"It faded out," Vince suddenly says. He noticed. _Finally._ "What do you want, Shawn?"

His heart pulses in his throat. That throat that's way too naked. It needs... What he needs, since this morning. Since that day. Since forever. It needs to show. Who he belongs to. And he needs to know, he needs to _feel_. Who he belongs to.

"Look at me."

He allows his eyes to look up.

"What do you want?" Vince asks again.

He doesn't know how to word it. He never does. And Vince knows what he wants, of course, he always knows. But he has to say it. He has to ask for it. Doesn't he? He doesn't know how to word it.

_Make me yours_.

_Own me. _

_Bite me. _

_Mark me._

A big intake of breath. And, "mark me," he whispers. "Please." His voice is almost steady.

And somehow, his heart isn't imploding, the ground isn't crumbling down under him. There's just his breathing, Vince's voice, "up", the pulsing in his head.

His knees don't appreciate the movement and Shawn winces, bites his lip, grasps the edge of the desk he's further pressed against. Fingers are back at being gentle in his hair. Breathe tickles his ear. "You had a good match tonight." It's like an order. He had a good match tonight. It wasn't bad, it wasn't average. It was a good match. A good match. He can stop beating himself up about it. Good match. "You deserve it." The warm breathe is going lower. "Stay quiet."

An arm wraps around his waist. His eyes fall shut.

_Yeah..._

His skin is nipped, bitten, sucked in, and Shawn does his best to keep it all in, to stay quiet like he said. Can't disappoint him. He just can't control the breathing, getting harsh, he can't control how good he's feeling, getting dizzy. Teeth suddenly sink in for good – like the wolf in his dream, killing him – and he can't control the yelp that comes out either. They're drawing blood. His life. They're biting for real. They're good. _So good._ His mouth is dry, his lips are chapped, has to lick them. His fingers dig in Vince's arm, the one that's holding him firm, dig in the furniture.

And the lips release him. Breathing starts to hurt, the insides burning, everything burning, the skin throbbing painfully.

Vince seems to be taking the time to admire the result, and Shawn can't wait to see it himself. Pass his own fingers over it.

"That should do." More caressing his hair. The voice is fond. He can imagine the smile that could be there.

His own voice can't be louder than a loud whisper. "Thank you."

His eyes open when his waist is squeezed, and the warmth of Vince's body leaves him. He arranges Shawn's hair, so they hide his neck, a good part of it. Shawn's eyes stay on the collar of the black shirt.

Then a single hand slides under his chin, lifts it up, and Shawn considers something he never really considered before. His lips are itching to do it. He can't just go ahead and do it, though. He can't. That's not how it works.

Lips ghost over his, and he wants to push on his toes, press their lips together. They burn, like his bruised skin.

But they never really meet. They never did, after all, ever.

And he can see Vince is about to say something else, but never does, focus changing from him to the phone ringing. Fingers brush Shawn's cheek a last time, and Vince answers.

And it's time to go.

He walks slowly, one step after another. Listens to the soft noises his feet make on the carpeted floor, pays attention to the clicks of the mechanism when grabbing the doorknob and opening the door, listens to what the rookies are saying outside. Ignores the itch that's still there. Ignores that "honey" Vince greeted the caller with. Ignores the same stares.

Strutting down the corridor, he touches the still pulsing spot under his hair.

Someone steps in front of him, and he meets narrowed eyes. Not so dark. Amber. Ones he wanted to avoid. They're nothing like Vince's.

"Changed my mind. Let's go have a drink," Hunter tells him, with a shrug. And that smile. Shawn has to smile back. "Just gotta be discreet, Vince isn't going to like us together."

And wonders for how many reasons he wouldn't. "You're paying, then." His hand leaves his neck, goes to his side, in the right pocket of his jeans. The bottle of pills is secured there. Might take some, in the end.

Hunter rolls his eyes, but says "sure", and starts to walk toward the exit, Shawn soon following him. Then, "don't go and order the most expensive shit around."

Shawn answers with a grin he can't see.


	2. Chapter 2

_More Shawn/Hunter in that one..._

* * *

The bottle of pills will stay unopened, deep in his pocket. Shawn jerks his head backwards, sniffing hard, forces the good stuff in his system. He looks at his reflection like this morning, the corner of his lips going up when he pushes some messy locks away and takes in the reddish skin. Sees the shapes of teeth. Then quickly walks out of the bathroom and back into the noise of the bar, wiping his nose, passing the same hand through his hair, multiple times. Hunter is waiting out there. He decided he needed something more radical eventually. For some reason. No reason. Nothing seems to be good enough, tonight. Nothing is good enough. The sharp pain when his fingers press on the bite marks sends jolts through his body, but is not enough.

Hunter smiles at him, a little nervously, when he sits back on his chair, hand already curled around his drink. Third one. Shawn has to smile back again. The pain is at least a good reminder of certain things.

"Sore neck?"

The hand that's not tightly holding a beer falls on the table. "Nah." The other brings the alcohol to his lips and he swallows mechanically.

"Well, you keep touching it..."

"So?" he snaps. And keeps drinking. Hunter sighs. Hunter sighs too often. Shawn licks his lips, ponders what he's going to ask for a second. "How was the ride this morning?"

"Uh... Kind of boring." He almost seems surprised.

Shawn nods, and there's a pause. Heavy. He has the time to finish his glass, stare at the bottom of it. Think about the car crashing, things ending. Sniffle once, twice.

Then Hunter adds, more firmly, "I missed you, Shawn."

It's like a fist in his chest. And of course there's that light in his eyes again, Shawn can't avoid it, and his breathing catches.

And Hunter continues, "I can't believe Vince is asking us to do that, I mean... Face, heel, who fucking cares?" _If that's what Vince wants._ "Now you're stuck with what's-his-face..." _What Vince wants. _"And it's just... It fucking sucks."

"It does." A beat. _What he wants. _"I missed you too."

"See, you keep touching your neck—"

The smile birthing on Shawn's face dies. The chair is kicked aside when he suddenly stands up, palms now flat on the table. Nobody stares – they're used to it. "Drop it already." Sniffs. "Fuck it, let's get the hell out of here."

He starts for the exit, not waiting for Hunter. Through the bar, through the doors, and stops in front of the road. Not many people pass by, and he realizes he used the backdoor. Some teens are making out against one of the cars. There's a few women are waiting on the other side, just standing there, their clothes speaking for themselves. Fewer streetlights. The cold wind hits him hard.

And his shivers stop when warmth envelops him. He feels the arms tighten around him, the breath near his face. There's fear, too, almost panic at the idea that Hunter could see the mark. Because Hunter would want answers, and he wouldn't be able to bullshit him, 'a chick didn't do that to you', and Hunter shouldn't do that anyway, and...

"I missed you."

He's turned around. Hands cup his face. And he sees worry there, along with the usual feelings in Hunter's eyes. Tries to back away to no avail. "I'm fine."

Hunter just shakes his head.

"I'm _fine_." But his voice is betraying once again. And he knows his whole body isn't any less shaky. And he knows he doesn't really want to back away, to push him away. Hunter missed him, Hunter is worrying about him, Hunter is giving him that love he craves, like he didn't think he could. Would.

_But..._

_But..._

The hands against his face slip lower, and a few fingers are right where the skin is bruised and throbbing, his hair the only thing in-between. Their hold is getting tighter, he tries not to wince.

And Hunter is kissing him, like Vince never did. His lips are finally getting something more than a feather-light touch, getting what they itched for, so he responds. They wobble in the kiss. The bite still hurts. He wills the hands against the broad chest before him to push, but they just fist in clothing. His skin is still pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The alcohol doesn't help. The drugs don't help. Shawn wants to scream, but only whimpers.

Then, Hunter backs away, but not too far. Caresses his hair, that same way... The shudder goes straight from Shawn's throat to his heart.

He stumbles backwards, arms extended in front of him. "I can't." It's strangled.

Hunter just shakes his head. Again.

Shawn's hand goes to his neck. Again.

"You're not over Kevin, are you."

He wonders if it's going to bleed. Again. It should. He fucked up. He let that happen. He let Hunter kiss him. He fucked up.

Fucked.

Up.

And he realizes what Hunter just said. "What?" Meets a dark stare. "There wasn't anything between me and Kev."

"Really." Shawn nods. "Okay," he says, but doesn't sound convinced. Not at all. Then, "I'm worried about you. All that heat you get, those things they tell you, I know it's eating you up. You go get wasted everynight, you pop those pills, you go—"

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?" He wipes his mouth.

Hunter takes a step forward. "I fucking care, Shawn. At least someone does."

"You're not the only one."

Hunter's eyebrows go up, stay there, silently asking who the hell he's talking about. He can't say. He can't possibly say.

More steps forward. "Shawn..." More kisses. More nothings from Shawn, not doing anything to stop him. His arms stay rigid by his sides. Hunter tastes like coke. The other coke. "Like it or not, I want to be there for you. I'll be there for you." His hand mimics one of Vince's gestures again, brushing against Shawn's cheek.

And Shawn rasps, "I know," looking at their feet, not looking at him. He wonders if he could call Vince. He needs to apologize. He needs to be...punished, or something like that. He needs to be reminded whom he belongs to, because, right, it wasn't enough. He needs him. _He needs him_. He doesn't need Hunter. Not that way. "I just can't..."

"Okay." It's the same than before, the one that says it isn't okay at all.

"I missed you too..." he tries for the second time, still looking at the ground. It's slightly wet, reflects some red light. Then Hunter's feet shift.

"I'm driving you to the hotel."

What he sees of the ground is hidden when he lets his forehead fall on Hunter's shoulder.

"And whoever that guy is..." Hunter continues. "I'll just be waiting." And he pretends to chuckle.

But _I'll never leave you_. That's what he told Vince that day, that day it all started, somewhere in New York. They were all leaving. Not him.

_I'll never leave you._Shawn spends half the night staring at the ceiling, rolling around, sleeping for a while, waking up, sleeping again. No real dreams. He could call Vince. But he'd bother him... He needs to sleep. They both do.

Sleep. Not drug induced.

_Try and have a good night_, Hunter said. He sighs. They kissed. He sighs again, and punches the mattress, feels it move under him. He needs to forget all those images for the night, needs to stop beating himself up about what happened, and Vince isn't there to lean against and help him. He could pretend he is.

His hand trails down his body, slips under his waistband. His other hand returns to the bite. Chase the bad memories with ones he wants. What happened in that office is still vivid enough in his mind. And then it changes, his imagination adding what he needs right now; the hands on him rougher, the teeth sharper – his nails dig in the bruise – Vince's mouth and arms suffocating him, kissing and holding him, and it's one of Vince's hands that slipped under his clothes, not his – his strokes faster – and he's not face down on a bed, it's the surface of the desk, and he's pushed against it. Yeah... Light gasps, groans, then his panting; all swallowed by the pillow. His neck throbs and burns.

_That should do._

Everything is heavy then. His spent body on the mattress, his eyelids, his heart. He calmly breathes through his nose. Sleep.

It's still Hunter's voice in his head wishing him a good night.

The next grey morning, Shawn tells Timmy to speed up again and taps the rhythm of songs against his throat, on the right spot. _Walk on through the rain_, Elvis says. _Walk on_. But it's not so painful anymore, and they arrive safely at the arena. He was able to make the referee's life a little more difficult, at least.

In the corridors, he feels healthy enough to yell how great his performance is going to be tonight, flirt back with Sunny when she bats her eyelashes at him in a corner – maybe he'll do her sometime, when Vince won't give him what he wants once again – and stare back at some guys, insult them. That he was able to get a good match out of Sid is overlooked, naturally.

Walk on.

This time Vince is here when he bursts in the office, the bunch of interchangeable losers aren't, and he rushes to the desk before hearing the _click_ of the door behind him, throws Vince a pleading look. He shouldn't be staring right at him like that, but... _Please do something, _he has to ask_._

His eyes finally lower when Vince frowns, then stands up, takes his sweet time walking around the desk. And opens his arms. Shawn quickly falls into them, and they close on him protectively, smother him. Strong. Warm.

"How's that flu?"

"Better," he mumbles.

"What did I tell you about hanging with Hunter?" Of course it got back to him already.

"I'm sorry." His voice is muffled and the air is rare, mouth breathing more fabric. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"Fine for this once, " Vince says after a while, nuzzling blonde hair. Good mood. Shawn tries to shake his head. It's not."I guess it's not." He's pulled away from the chest, still holds onto the shirt. "What happened?"

"Hunter, he... I let him... He kissed me."

He gets to listen to the silence of the room for a second.

"I see."

Shawn wishes he could hide his face again. He focuses on the wrinkles of the shirt instead. "I was drunk."

"Not just drunk." He tries to swallow. Vince lets out an exasperated sigh, and draws Shawn back to him. Shawn's eyes burn.

"I'm sorry, sir. You should..." There's the soothing hand in his hair. He shouldn't be comforted. Not at all. "You should..."

Vince actually laughs. And says in his ear, "punish you?"

A shiver crawls down his spine as he nods, bites his lip. Another sigh, more resigned than exasperated this time.

Minutes pass, and he starts feeling drowsy, almost too comfortable. Then fingers wrap around his neck. "I guess that wasn't enough." Here we go. Finally. Do something. The fingers seize his throat, rough; the other hand cups his cheek and slides down to join them. He tilts his head back and focuses on Vince's face now. _Do something. _He fucked up. Hunter kissed him. Hunter kissed him, like Vince never did.

Like Vince never did...

His lips itch and burn again. He thinks about last night's fantasy. All that kissing looked so good in his head...

The fingers are hard, it's getting difficult to breathe, but he still manage to whisper "kiss me," eyes glued to other eyes that widen a little along with his. And his mouth goes dry. Drier. He shouldn't have asked. His jeans are tight. His heart is going to stop from beating so hard.

Then Vince's lips are on Shawn's jawline. Cheek. Forehead. Other cheek. Jaw. Near his mouth. They nib. "What did you say?"

He opens his eyes – doesn't know when they slipped shut to begin with – and meets darker ones, right before they close, and his close again, and he utters a weak "kiss me" again, and their lips finally meet. His frantic heart jumps. It feels like they crashed into each others, his body shaking from the shock. His lips already part, wanting more. He begs with a moan. But the other lips already leave his, leave him panting. Linger inches away.

The hands around his neck keep him from following. They get tight enough to completely stop his breathing, for one second. One second of actual fear, and something else. Something like excitement. _My breathing_. His legs buckle slightly. _My life. _He's kissed again, and it's sloppier at first, Shawn gasping for air in and kissing at the same time. _Within his hands._ Open-mouthed. He feels the wedding ring dig in his skin. The other hand goes to his shoulder, down his arm, and back up, strongly enough to leave a lasting sensation.

It really hurt for only one second. Vince had his life in his hands for only one second. It's not enough... It's still not good enough.

"Don't forget," Vince starts, and fingers squeeze, "who owns you."

And before being pushed away and stumbling back, Shawn can mouth a 'yes'.

The make-up girl doesn't even blink at the bruises. Probably thinks one of the guy wanted to teach him a lesson, and _serves him right_. He watches her hide them little by little, gets ready to be someone else little by little. He licks his lips, over and over. Pops a few pills once she's gone, and wishes he had stronger than that.

Someone is talking when his mind gets less cloudy and he sees the ceiling again. He feels good. His neck feels good...

"Shawn? How do you feel?"

He grins at an upside down Hunter, tilting his head back. "Good."

Hunter doesn't seem to believe it. "So uh, what did Vince say?" he finally asks. Just a hint of a smile.

"Uh?"

"Earlier, you went to see him, what did he say? Does he know about last night?"

There's a flash of the kiss. It's taken over by the memory of dark eyes deep into his, and he grins again.

"Yeah... It's fine."

"Stop taking that stuff, Shawn."

"Stop telling me that." And just like that the good feelings fade away. The noise all around them is clearer now, the lights brighter, and Hunter's face paler, his eyes more tired. Shawn straightens up to meet his reflection – looking good – and wants to scratch all the make up off. He can't see them. He can't see the red.

Then he can't even see the skin, arms crossing around him, heavy on his shoulders. A forehead bumps against the back of his head. And again there's that part of him that wants to let go. Maybe melt in Hunter's arms.

"You sure that other guy cares that much?" he says, voice quiet. Intimate. The answers crossing Shawn's mind scare him - _I want him to care that much – _not certain enough at all. No, _he does care that much. _"I mean, he... He kind of left you, and—"

"It's not Kevin."

He feels the sigh in his hair. "I just don't know who else it could be."

And Shawn merely mumbles, "much better this way."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the reviews :) _

_Right now, FFnet is completely screwing with the .doc, FYI._

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It's freezing outside, but Shawn's window is open and his arm dangling. He can feel his fingers getting colder, as if ice was forming all around them, and they'd break on any impact. He can feel the wind in his hair, on his throat. Throat burning again, on the outside and on the inside, weak enough to make him sick again. The cold cools it off, kills it off. Wraps itself around it, like Vince's hands did. Shivers remembering.

The red and green lights they pass by color his skin, and he watches. The wrist turning green. Yellow. Dark again. Yellow. Red. Red. Red. They stopped.

Shawn turns his head to stare at Timmy, still holding the steering wheel like he's going to lose control. "The hell did you stop for?"

"Uh... Red light." He's not as nervous as before. He's getting tired of Shawn's crap, and starting to have the balls to show it. So, Shawn can just get worse.

"And you see anyone else around here, idiot? Fuck the red lights." The bottle of pills is half-empty now, and he hears them, deep in his pocket, when he moves his arm. "Just speed up." And takes the bottle out.

"Yeah, I know. Speed up."

But he waits still. Shawn sighs loudly, measures the quantity of pills in there. 15 or so. He could take at least half of it. The engine starts and Shawn swallows them. Lets his hand fall back down near his lap, bottle still open; and watches his other hand again.

Timmy does speed up. They're going fast. Faster. The closest they've been to the crash and the end, maybe. He still sees his wrist red. What would it look like really red? Like after... No, not a cut. After being held. By someone else. Held tight. With something else. Tight enough to leave some red, some marks, tight enough to play with his life. Like Vince's hands could.

His lower lip slips under his teeth.

"Can't you close the window?"

His eyelids are already halfway down. He can see his hands held together. With Vince's tie, or something like that. He can almost feel it, the icy wind hurting.

"Shawn?"

And Vince could throw him on the couch. On the desk. On the floor. Wherever. And then... And then...

Then Timmy shakes him awake. Shawn slaps his hand away, blames him for always arriving too early at the arenas, and quickly gets out of the car.

The place seems almost empty. He sighs in front of the doors, looks at the smoke his cold breath forms, fumbles in his bag for some gum. And thinks, they could change something in the match tonight, make it less like all the other nights. He'll have to try and talk about it, with people who can't stand doing just that.

If only he and Hunter could...

He chews more rapidly.

"Ever going to get in?"

Shawn startles at the voice. His heart starts racing, from that, and from something else. Two suits walk past him, not laughing with their boss, talking, always about the same issues. He hears about them everyday. He hears about them too often. A hand settles on his shoulder, digging in the leather, a mouth lingers near his ear, a body near his back, and the gum is smashed between his teeth.

"What are you standing here for?" Vince asks, and backs away, turns to face Shawn, switches the hand squeezing the shoulder. Cold breaths mingle between their faces. "You look like shit, you know." The tone is less humorous. Maybe even tinted with worry.

Shawn shrugs. "I'm alright." And focuses on the collar of a black shirt, as usual – maybe a little higher, where lips are. Blonde hair the wind pushes over his face obstructs his view.

And after a sigh, one of those resigned ones, the lips move closer, move to whisper, "you make me do the dumbest things", and his eyelids already darken his view when the lips are ready to move against his.

And he wants to grab that collar and drag him closer. Wonders who the hell could see them. Wonders if Vince does care that much, like Hunter asked. _Of course he does_. _He wouldn't be there, in the middle of the street, kissing you. Kissing you. Finally kissing you. _The dumbest things. He presses their lips together more forcefully before they pull apart, too soon.

"Look at me."

Shawn does, licking the inside of his empty mouth. Smiling when that hand brushes his cheek. He gets no smile back, as Vince explains to him the plan of the day, and mentions those issues he doesn't want to hear about, talk about. As quickly as the kiss. He asks if he's willing to job to that guy, Shawn says no, he asks again, thumb brushing the ridge of a cheekbone, Shawn says maybe.

"Good boy." Shawn nods, Vince finally smiles back. And turns around. Only then does Shawn notice the group approaching, how cold he really is without body warmth, how heavy his bag is. How fast his heart is still beating. How empty his ribcage seems to be.

And the stare Bret gives him when he pushes the door, as if he'd seen everything. There's always been the so-called jokes about him, his going down on Vince and all those dirty things he's supposed to have been doing to keep his spot, to deserve it to begin with, to do whatever he wants. And he doesn't know just how much of it is a joke when it comes from Bret. He gulps.

He can still see Vince walking at the end of the corridor, throwing away the chewing gum, and he wants to run and catch him. But he goes forward at a normal pace, cautious, sneers some insults back. As usual.

Walk on.

Vince is already on the phone when he reaches the office, throws his bag, his jacket, himself on the couch. Slides his hands through his hair, uncovering his neck. And stares at the ceiling. His hand wraps around his wrist, rubbing.

There's a weight next to him after a few minutes. Another hand that's not his clasps his wrist, lifts it up. "Wrist hurting?"

Shawn shakes his head no, presses his wrist against the palm. The hand holds it tighter, and Vince's nails scratch the thin skin covering visible veins, where he can see the beating of his heart. It beats for him. He shifts, getting his head in Vince's lap.

"Timmy called me." His hand is dropped. Shawn lets it fall like a dead weight. "He wishes you'd stop making him drive dangerously." Locks of his hair are brushed away. "Is it a car crash you want?" He tilts his head, to follow the fingers. Vince should see the answer on his face. He knows everything. "Shawn."

"I just like driving fast." It's said rapidly, like an obvious lie. "He doesn't _have_ to listen to me."

"Right." The fingers dive in his hair. "And you just like tasting painkillers, too." His head is tilted again, back and by force this time, to meet the eyes above. He's surprised they're not glaring. "You should stop trying to kill yourself."

"I'm not..." Shawn's own eyes are wide, and start tearing up. "I..." The hand in his hair becomes gentle, the other caresses his skin, passes over the marks on his neck, doesn't quite get inside his shirt. "I just..."

"...like trying."

Shawn blinks, and one or two tears fall. Vince's fingers rest on his throat, fitting – he wants them to tighten. They could move on from this.

"You'll stop asking him to speed up."

He nods after a while, looking at the ceiling instead of Vince's eyes, and expects a 'good boy' he doesn't get. A thumb dries the tears out, new ones start to birth.

"Come on." Vince sits him back up, puts an arm around him, and another higher up. It's the arm of the couch he's staring at now, his feet reaching the edge. There's a kiss in his hair that makes every part of him jump, the wetness in his eyes escape a little. More kisses fall down his jaw. He drags his arms behind his back, the same idea still in mind. The desire to be held. The desire to move on. His hands bump into each other. "I should know." More pressure on his throat. "You like me playing with your life too."

"Not the same..." Shawn's skin glides against the forearm with each word. "...sir."

A long pause. He doesn't hear any sigh but feels it on his ear. "Right."

One of the arms slips away. There's some fumbling, some metallic noises, and the other arm leaves his neck, too. He hears the voices of people in front of the office door, those oblivious morons who have no idea what's happening inside. They can joke about it. They have no idea. Both arms get back in place, sheltering him from the outside. The leather of the belt burns his wrists nicely. One more kiss – his stomach flutters – and he can't breathe anymore.

Stepping out of the office, he meets Hunter's eyes. Cloudy whiskey stares back, touching his whole body. It only hits Shawn now that they haven't seen each other most of the day. It hits him right in the chest, again. And all he can say is a weak "hey".

Without uncrossing his arms, without letting his eyes go back up, Hunter asks: "so, Shawn, why do you hang around Vince's office so often these days?"

Shawn wants to tell him it's not the place, that they should talk about that somewhere else. He just tries to shrug. And as though the office door could show Hunter what happened on the other side, fear creeps up his insides. It's another hit in the chest when he thinks, _that's it. He understands everything. I'm fucked. We're fucked._

"Are you avoiding me now?"

Shawn frowns, shakes his head. "Why would I?" His nervous hand passes through his hair, and quickly falls into his pocket, searching for comfort. And he can't find anything.

It's Hunter's turn to shrug. "You know, that...boyfriend of yours—"

"He's not my _boyfriend_." In any other time, he would have laughed. But the pills. The pills aren't there. "He doesn't..." He swallows, hard. Keeps searching. "...love me or anything..." And _never_, yells the little voice at the back of his mind. _He will never love you_. "Anyway..."

Hunter does laugh, harshly. "He doesn't love you." And no pills in his pockets. He could go ask for some meds again, mix them with some good alcohol again, even if Vince... "Shawn, I do."

Or coke. Sadly, there's always coke. "You what?"

"What's up with you?"

"I can't..." He avoids the eyes, stare at the crossed arms. Strong. They could hold him down. "I can't find my pills."

"Good."

Shawn shakes his head again, rolls his eyes, and starts walking away. He'll have a meaningful conversation later. When his body will be calmed down. When his body will be filled with the stuff it needs. The real stuff dreams are made of. When that stuff will flow through his veins, help him live.

Help him _live_.

He's not killing himself. Wouldn't take those drugs otherwise. He chuckles at the thought. The boss was wrong.

But Vince can't be wrong, can he?

Turning to strut down another corridor, he sees them in the corner of his eye. Hunter, and Vince. Talking. He stands there. Part of his body wants to go forward, run to them. What are they saying? What are they saying about him?

A few steps backwards, and he runs away instead. To the nearest bathroom.

The match further fucks up his knee. Bret glares again, that way, like he knows about every single thing going on in his life. It makes him nervous, because it's possible. It's possible he knows. Shawn feels the skin of his legs burn, not in a good way. Not that arousing burn he can feel on his neck sometimes.

And now that he left his little square of heaven, he just wants to get out of here. Hunter is near the exit. He tries not to look at him, and ignore the start of his name.

Timmy waits for him next to the car, looking fed up. He's so the one who stole the pills, he tells himself. _That fucker_.

"Let me drive," he tells Timmy.

"What? Why? No."

Just a slight push backs the referee against the car. Shawn wrinkles his collar in his fist. "I'm not asking for your opinion." He stares into his eyes longer than needed, urging him to spill out everything. How he took the bottle of pills. Shawn sure as hell didn't lose it, so someone took it. And it's him. It's him. "I'm driving."

"Vince said—"

"Fuck Vince." That shuts him up. And there's a bad feeling in Shawn's chest, a weight that keeps him from enjoying the sight of TIm getting in the passenger seat. He's not doing what Vince wants. He rubs his wrist a little.

It's been long a time since he last had a wheel in his hands. It feels good. He watches his fingers wrap around it.

"You sure your leg is alright enough to—"

"The fuck do you know about my leg? Give me the keys." A minute, and he's given the keys. Behind Timmy's head, the lights of the hall are still bright. Shawn imagines Hunter there. Hunter wondering why he ignored him. Cursing Shawn. Thinking about his conversation with Vince and all the things they said about him. Feeling happy he doesn't have to drive him anywhere, in the end. No temper to deal with. "Let's get out of here."

He cranks the car up and goes fast. No way can he go slow. He's used to drive to get away from something, to escape. It was his primary reason to drive back in high school, get away with what they had stolen from the rival school that day, as fast as possible. As stupid as it was to make it obvious it was his car. The girls liked it. They liked the bad guys.

Speeding up, now. He's driving. He's not asking Timmy to do it. That's not disobeying Vince. "So you went whining to Vince, uh." Controlling the wheel with one hand, he searches for some gum, barely looking at the road.

"I'm not risking my life for you. I felt I had to." The voice is weak. Timmy's a nice guy. "Please look at the road."

"The drugs have nothing to do with your life." He burns a red light. Another car honks. Little jolts of pain in his leg make him squeeze his eyes shut for a second.

"You just..." A sigh. "What do you mean, the drugs?"

"My pills. You know, that little bottle you took. Where the fuck are they?"

"I didn't take anything."

The car turns, the wheels scream against the road. Timmy's hand shoots to the jesus handle. "Liar."

"Shawn, I swear." He's scared. It's egging Shawn on. "You must have forgotten them."

"Like hell I did." And they're already here, the hotel a few feet away. Shawn hits the brakes, grimacing at the pain, and sees Tim being pulled forward, still clinging to the handle. Beside his seat, there's a little bottle, upside down and empty. He did forget it. _Shit._

Timmy's eyes are on him. Shawn tries to look like everything's fine. Like his knee isn't yelling at him to stop, smother it with ice, and go lie down. Staring at the wheel, he decides he'll go find some comfort somewhere else, then, the kind of comfort you drink. "Fine. Get out," he says.

"You're... Where are you going?"

"Don't worry about your car, I'll come back here." Timmy doesn't seem too sure about that. He's not either.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business." Then there's only the noise of the street, and Shawn's breathing. The breathing of someone in pain. He hates it. He wants to stop breathing. "What are you waiting for? Get out."

Timmy finally opens the door, and steps out, too slowly. "Take care, Shawn."

"I'll get the car back."

"I didn't mean..." Shawn's fingers start tapping impatiently on the wheel. "Okay, see you."

The door closes.

Shawn lets his forehead fall against the wheel.

It was great, back in high school. Driving away meant going back home, going back to mom. There's no home here.

There's a bar, though, at the other end of the city.

Shawn quickly orders something, once sprawled on the table. He thinks about Vince kissing him in the middle of the street, and his hearbeat picks up. Maybe that's what he needs the most. Maybe he doesn't need Vince to own him. Maybe enough of love will have the same effect than the pain.

Hunter... Hunter seems ready to give him that.

Hunter... Hunter isn't Vince.


End file.
